Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
RHETT
Iget here ten minutes early. Mostly because I don’t trust Atlanta traffic, but also because being late feels like tempting fate. The last thing I want is to give Rachel another reason to be mad at me before she even walks through the door. Lord knows she already has enough reasons.
After I order, I claim a corner table by the window. It’s close enough that I can see the entrance, but far enough from the rest of the room to feel insulated. Part of me is worried this conversation might need walls.
I take one distracted sip of my coffee and set the cup back down.
My leg bounces under the table. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous.
I shouldn’t be, it’s Sunny for God’s sake.
She has seen me in every way there is, but my pulse doesn’t seem to care.
It is bracing for impact. Almost as if it knows this isn’t just a conversation, but something that could change the shape of everything.
My phone buzzes against the table. ‘Unknown number’ flashes on the screen. I watch it ring, my pulse ticking up with every vibration, then let it die on its own. I flip the phone facedown, hoping that might quiet the unease curling in my chest.
It doesn’t. I check the door once more to see if Sunny is near, and when I don’t see her, I turn the phone back over and open my call log. The same number stacked on top of each other stares back at me. Yesterday afternoon. Late last night. Early this morning. And now.
Four calls in five days.
That’s not spam. Spam doesn’t linger. It doesn’t circle back like this, patient and persistent.
My thumb hovers over the screen, heat gathering at my fingertips.
In a moment of weakness, a thought I’ve trained myself not to entertain slips through.
What if it’s her? What if she is finally trying to find me?
It is a stupid, dangerous thought. She has been gone for twenty years, and every lead I’ve chased in the past four years has turned into nothing.
Dead ends and disconnected numbers. Silence.
Still, the hope hits fast, like it always does, and I hate myself for it.
I make a mental note to give the number to John.
Let him dig into it. That’s what I pay him for.
I shove the phone into my pocket just as the bell over the café door chimes.
I look up.
Rachel walks in the door two minutes past two. Her scrubs are replaced with jeans and a soft blue top. Her hair is pulled back but loose around her face. And for a second, it is like we are twenty-two again. Only not, because twenty-two-year-old Sunny didn’t hate me.
“Hey,” I say, standing.
“Hey,” she echoes, sliding into the chair.
Something sharp flickers in her eyes. I wait a beat before sitting, watching the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She smooths her hands down her jeans like she needs something to do with them.
“I see you’re still a black coffee guy.” Her eyes flick to my cup.
I grin as they move to the second cup sitting on the table, and I watch as her brows fold together. “And you ordered for me? A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
I nudge the cup closer. “Look, if I got it wrong, I’ll grab something else.” I rub my jaw. “But you always went for chai. Extra cinnamon. No whip.”
She blinks, expression unreadable. “Do you remember all of my favorite drinks?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.
Her fingers curl around the cup, but she doesn’t drink it yet.
“Right,” she says flatly. “Because remembering old things about me is kind of your thing lately.”
There it is. I was waiting for it. That sharp mouth I’ve missed too much over the past few years.
“I’m not trying to cause you problems, Rach.”
She exhales and finally lifts the lid. “You’re not. I just—this whole thing feels… loaded.”
“You mean coffee, or that I still care whether you’re happy?”
She shoots me a look and rolls her eyes. “Let’s not start with that again.”
“I’m not starting anything,” I say, throwing my hands up innocently. “Just trying to be honest.”
She sips slowly. “You know I hate to admit when you’re right.”
At first, I think she’s talking about her horrible relationship with Ben, but then she lifts her cup toward me.
“But you got my order right.”
The sharpness in her voice softens, and a light, content sigh slips out. It slides under my skin before I can convince myself not to catalog it in my brain.
I clear my throat, shoving the thoughts down like I’ve done a hundred times before, but it’s useless.
I swear I used to be better at keeping them in check.
I used to be able to think about her, watch her, talk to her, hell, even brush past her without my body staging a rebellion.
But it is like my tolerance for her has plummeted over the last four years.
Fifteen minutes of her attention is enough to leave me buzzed. In her presence I’m suddenly a little light-headed and stumbling over my own words like I’ve had one too many. I’m drunk on her without a single sip.
“I guess time doesn’t change some things.”
She tilts her head, lips curving down. “Some things are forced to change.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay, fair,” I say, peering over my cup. “But looks like you’re still pretty good at keeping me on my toes.”
Her fingertip traces a faint water ring on the table. “So, you’re still in town? I thought you’d go home by now. You never stay long in this place.”
“This is home, Rach,” I say, testing her. Might as well get this part over with.
She blinks once, slowly, like her brain’s stuck buffering.
“I—uh, I’m back for good,” I add, leaning my elbow on the table. “Took a job here. Actually, it’s at the fire department in Brookhaven.”
Her brows lift, surprise flashing before she masks it. “Wait. You’re serious?” Her tone sharpens again. “You moved here?”
It’s kind of cute watching her face scrunch up in confusion.
“Have you known me to be anything but serious?”
She doesn’t answer that. Just blinks again, and I think she’s recalibrating.
“So, uh, yeah.” I take a sip of my coffee. “Started this week, actually.”
“Wow,” she says finally. “That’s big.” Her eyes dart around, and I can almost see the gears turning.
“Mhmm-hmm.” I sip again. “Figured it was time, you know.”
“Time for what?”
“For a change.” I set my cup down. “To be a little closer to people who matter.” I want to be direct, like we used to be. But after the last time we talked, I know I have to tread carefully.
She stays silent, narrowing her eyes while studying me. I feel her testing me, but she doesn’t walk away. That counts for something, right?
“You always had a thing for timing,” she says with a shaky laugh.
I grin, half-assed. “Yeah. Clearly not always good timing,” I say, speaking past the lump in my throat.
“How’s work?” I ask quickly, trying to shift her focus before she digs up another reason to be mad.
She shrugs. “Busy. Same stuff, different shift. It’s not bad. I’m just really busy, and sometimes I feel like the patients are never satisfied with the pace of healing. And I get it, recovery takes time. But sometimes I wish I could remind them what the alternative could have been.”
“People forget that slow progress is still progress,” I say. “They only see what’s missing.”
“It can be infuriating.”
“You know, I was doing some light reading the other day, and came across an article about brain-wave patterns in patients who’ve lost limb function.
It said recovery is influenced by the emotional tone of the therapist. When the therapist stays positive, it actually boosts the patient’s brain function and optimism.
So you’re probably helping more than you even realize. ”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you reading physical therapy articles?”
“I just happened to come across it. Thought of you,” I say, a little too quickly.
She stares, unimpressed.
“I guess, I read it to see if there was anything interesting you’d want to know,” I add.
I can’t believe I just admitted that out loud to her. I’m not sure she knows what to do with that answer. At least that is what her face is telling me. Her expression is somewhere between amused and uncertain, and I instantly feel the panic set in.
Maybe I’ve lost a little of my charm over the years.
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind when they’re being extra stubborn and grouchy,” Rachel finally says, but her voice is soft, teasing even. I feel some relief creep in.
I grin and nudge her gently with my foot. “Some people can be stubborn when it comes to letting others help. Your patients, for sure. You,” I pause, chuckling. “… might know a thing or two about that.”
She raises an eyebrow at me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Oh? Are you speaking from professional experience or just projecting?”
I laugh. “Clearly, from a professional experience. I would never project.”
“Mmm. Sounds like something someone stubborn would say.”
“Please. I’m a delight.”
Rachel lets out a real laugh. It is quick and unfiltered. One I haven’t heard in person for years. “You are many things, Rhett Hayes, but I hate to break it to you, ‘delightful’ does not crack the top ten.”
I press a hand to my chest in feigning offense. “Ouch. Brutal, Rach.”
She shrugs, not even a little sorry. “I said what I said.”
“Then I’m all ears.” I turn toward her, giving her my full attention.
“What does make the top three? I feel like I deserve to know how I’m perceived.
I mean, if I’ve been walking around thinking ‘delightful’ was in the mix and you’ve got a completely different list…
” I gesture between us. “That’s a full-blown identity crisis waiting to happen. ”
She lifts her brows and laughs. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of honesty?”
“From you, absolutely,” I say, leaning closer, dropping my voice. “Put me out of my misery, Rach.”